


fond de la mer

by scionblad



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Dance, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Male-Female Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-04-06 10:40:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14055171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scionblad/pseuds/scionblad
Summary: Getting paired with Adrien in Swan Lake should be a golden opportunity for Marinette to finally make a move—little does she know that Adrien's looking for something, too.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> alt title: big ol' self-indulgent goop fest of everyone's favorite cat and bug team (ladybug: you mean bug and cat team.)
> 
> i was a little wary of posting this for a while because i kept rereading it and going "oh god this characterization? oh god there's so much dialogue? oh god there's so much focus on things that don't pay off later?" and definitely writing fluffy romantic things like this is not at all my forte but in the end i decided... i'm just here to have fun. and i hope you have fun too
> 
> regarding "aged-up characters" tag— they are about 21-22 in this but this ain't a sin fic or anything, so don't get too excited.

Eleven o’clock on a Monday morning, and Marinette couldn’t concentrate in company class.

She had barely made it on time—Alya had tried to wake her up but she knew better than anyone that Marinette slept like the dead and woke only through her own willpower and no one else’s—and that meant barely fifteen minutes before to stretch and roll out her muscles, and even then she’d forgotten to bring her roller so she’d had to use Alya’s and by the time Madame Mendeleiev walked in and rattled off a combination right as ten-thirty struck the dot, Marinette was feeling the stiffness in her thighs and hips still from not properly rolling out. Lost in thought, she did three _demi-pliés_ instead of two, and Madame Mendeleiev gave her a strict look as she did the _grand plié_.

She really had to get her shit together. It was contract renewal time, and when she’d come in, out of breath and still sleepy from waking up a little bit ago, Alya had raised an eyebrow and asked if she’d gotten her contract letter from the mailbox yet—“because if she didn’t, then Gabriel Agreste might be changing his mind right now.”

 _Fondu, développé, fondu, développé—_ not to the front, to the back. She cringed as her foot, extended forwards, collided with Nathanael’s extended backwards. He looked behind him, curiosity and concern in his eyes and Marinette grinned apologetically. Alya might have been joking about Gabriel Agreste rewriting her contract, but she wasn’t too far off the mark. Marinette _really_ had to get her shit together. It was a good thing Mendeleiev was on the other side of the room, she thought with a sigh as they turned around to exercise the other leg.

The rumor going around was Adrien was set to get promoted to _coryphée_ , even though he was only two years in the company’s lowest rank. It didn’t strike Marinette as anything unusual; after all his form really was impeccable, and his charm rolled off him in leaps and bounds, like his _grands jétés_ and his _fouettés sautés._ And partnering—she’d never partnered with him, actually; he’d always been with others, and she’d partnered with Nathanael and Luka, who weren’t by any means bad. But Adrien was good at it, partnering.

Ten places away, Adrien caught her eye and smiled. She nervously smiled back.

It was probably good that she hadn’t partnered with Adrien before now. If she did, then there’d be little chance that she’d be able to keep her composure at all.

Chloé, situated three places away, kept meeting her eye and giving her dirty looks. Why, Marinette didn’t know, but it was really distracting.

 _Rond de jambe en dehors, rond de jambe en dedans,_ Chloé shot her another dirty look. Marinette looked straight ahead and tried to focus on tightening her core so she wouldn’t wobble.

“Hands, Mlle Dupain-Cheng,” said Madame Mendeleiev, strolling by. “And a longer extension on your _développé_ , if you please.”

She did her best to ignore Chloé smirking at her from a few places down. Class was going to be long indeed.

At least in center exercises they took turns in groups doing combinations, and Marinette and Alya hung back enough to make sure they went at the same time.

“Chloé keeps _looking_ at me for some reason,” Marinette whispered as they watched Chloé run out to the time of the piano music.

“It’s because she’s jealous,” said Alya matter-of-factly, rolling her feet up to pointe and back. “You’re like, the best dancer in our year and you’re probably gonna get promoted and she isn’t.”

Marinette chewed her lip as Chloé spun and leapt across the floor. “I guess,” she said.

“No, you _know_ ,” insisted Alya as they shuffled into place to do center combinations. “You’re _good_ , Marinette.”

Mendeleiev’s sharp eye seemed to say otherwise. “Higher, Mlle Dupain-Cheng!” she barked, as Marinette twirled and jumped. “Your leg is _en retiré_ , not _coupé_!”

At the edge of the room, facing away from the mirrors, Marinette made a face. “She’s not giving me any rest today,” she groaned quietly.

Alya patted her consolingly as Chloé smirked at them over the shoulders of several people.

“Ignore her,” said Alya, as the next group of dancers ran into their places to do the combination. “You are _so_ good. And you’ve been keeping your head down and working hard and staying hungry, all of that. What rehearsals do you have today?”

“Mostly _Swan Lake_ ,” said Marinette, watching Nino do a particularly aggressive _assemblé_ across the center. “Act I, I think? And another rehearsal later for Act IV.”

“Well at least you’ll be jumping around a bit more than in Act II,” said Alya, as Mendeleiev ended class and dancers trickled out. “ _And_ you’ll get to see…”

She trailed off, and Marinette raised an eyebrow in confusion. “Alya?”

Alya pointed behind her with a somewhat strained expression. Marinette whirled around and flushed immediately.

“A-Adrien!” she chirped, trying to keep her voice down.

He smiled. “Marinette! I’ll see you in rehearsal, yeah?”

“Oh, uh, yeah! Yeah.” She waved awkwardly. “See you then.”

“Good luck with your meeting later tonight!” he called before turning around to walk out of the studio.

“Y-yeah,” she said, still waving.

Beside her, Alya rolled her eyes, but it was with a grin that she grabbed Marinette’s elbow to go off to get lunch.

 

 

 

The early afternoon Act I rehearsal started at one-thirty, but it was one-thirty-five when Gabriel Agreste stood sternly in his suit at the front of the room, his sharp eyes surveying the dancers scattered around the _barres_. Marinette tried not to look too intimidated from her place standing among one of the two groups of dancers that made up the two casts.

Finally, after a moment, he asked, “Where is Mlle Lavillant?”

It hadn’t occurred to her until she arrived that there was one face missing out of the first cast of peasants. She chewed her lip nervously as Juleka stepped out of the clump of dancers by the _barre_.

“She has a broken ankle,” Juleka said in her usual gravelly mumble. “The doctor said she’d be out for at least six weeks.”

Gabriel Agreste made a displeased noise. “Then does anyone know her place in the formations?”

The dancers in Marinette’s cast all turned to look at her, and she squirmed. Alya, who was standing across the room in the other cast, gave her a pointed look that seemed to say, _well, go on._

The whole thing seemed too good to be true, but it was an _opportunity_ and she had to take advantage of what she could. Deep breath in, deep breath out.

“Uh, I do,” she said, trying not to sound too nervous.

“Good,” said Gabriel Agreste. “Who was Rose’s partner?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Alya’s expression from across the room, satisfied and knowing.

“I was,” said Adrien.

The ballet master sized them up with a keen gaze from behind his fashionable glasses and nodded. “Good,” he said. “Then, Mlle Dupain-Cheng, you will dance both casts. If the first cast would like to take their places, I’d like to start with the waltz…”

Adrien gave her an encouraging smile as she walked over to him. “Nice to be working with you, Marinette,” he said.

He was just being polite. Marinette gave a tentative smile back. “You too,” she said lamely.

It wasn’t as if she didn’t trust him to drop him or anything, because she did, but they hadn’t danced together before so she wasn’t sure exactly how he might adjust to her center of balance for promenades and lifts, but he was good enough, probably, to find it quickly, or something; after all, that was why he was getting promoted and everything—

“Marinette,” he whispered, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. He was looking at her with a measure of concern. “Music’s starting.”

Gabriel Agreste was nodding at the pianist and the music was starting. Adrien squeezed her hand comfortingly. _We’ll be all right._

The first act waltz was always one of her favorite set pieces—well, really, the entire ballet was honestly a true work of art, in her own humble opinion—but all of the lifts and formations always got muddled up no matter how much she tried to organize it all in her thoughts. Adrien, however, seemed to know everything, and even if some of the lifts weren’t as smooth as they could be, he seemed to know where to hold her and where to stand so she could hold on to his hand.

He really was so good at what he did, she thought, as she waltzed off to one side with the rest of the girls. It had only been a few weeks that they’d learned the steps, and she was only starting to gain the muscle memory, but here he was, moving through the dance with as little effort as it took to breathe.

Gabriel Agreste studied them, nodding sternly from his chair. “Higher arabesque, if you would, Mireille,” he called out. “Keep the hips square, Aurore.”

His blue eyes slid past his son’s form without a word. Marinette bit her lip as the formation changed, but Adrien didn’t make a face as they all ran back to their partners; only put his hand on the small of Marinette’s back and kept dancing. She tried too hard not to think about how alien the touch was, despite its comfort.

They stopped at the prince’s small ensemble section to correct some of the footwork. Marinette took the moment to lean forward and put her hands on her knees so she could catch her breath.

“Was that okay?” asked Adrien beside her, also panting. “Was I standing too far back for the balances?”

“No,” said Marinette, then reconsidered. “Well, yes, but it’s okay; I mean, it’s not like we’ve ever danced together before so it’s not like you would have known where to stand that’s good for balance or promenades or things like that, and we can easily fix it or something later, maybe—”

There was such a weird look on his face that she stopped babbling. “Wh-what?” she asked, slightly panicked. “Did I say something?”

His mouth wobbled a little bit, like it was trying to suppress something, and he squeezed his eyes shut and let out a very soft snort.

“A-Adrien?”

“I’m sorry,” he wheezed between fits of laughter. “You’re—sorry, give me a sec.”

He pressed a palm to his mouth to smother the laughing so Gabriel wouldn’t see, but it didn’t help very much in stopping it. As he doubled over, his shoulders still shaking, Marinette blinked, her heart racing away at the terror of two thoughts: _oh he’s so cute—Gabriel Agreste is going to chew us out here as we stand_.

“I-it’s not that funny,” she stammered, but that only made him laugh harder into his hand.

“Okay,” said Gabriel Agreste then, and Marinette froze, her hands clammy on her tights. “Let’s start from th—Adrien? Are you well?”

He hacked a cough. “I’m fine. I’m fine.”

“Good. Let’s proceed, then. Right after the prince’s ensemble.”

She stumbled a bit when the music started up again. Adrien hadn’t ever done anything like that before, not in school or ever at the company that she knew of. It was entirely plausible that he’d done something like that around, say, Nino, who was his closest friend, but he’d just started dancing with Marinette today. And sure, they’d known each other in school since he’d arrived in the advanced class with a swirl of prodigious talent that could only be expected of ballet legend Gabriel Agreste’s son, but really.

It was either the most embarrassing thing to have this boy laugh at her for babbling, or the most flattering, and she couldn’t figure out which one terrified her more.

 

 

 

“He laughed at you?” Alya raised an eyebrow. Marinette groaned and put her face in her palms.

“Yes,” she said from behind her hands. “He did. And I have no idea _why._ ”

“It’s _probably_ because he thought you were funny. Want wine?”

Marinette stared at the empty glass in Alya’s hand for a moment before sighing. “I guess it couldn’t hurt.”

“Pour it yourself,” said Alya. “I gotta take the roast out of the oven.”

They usually kept their wine in a small cabinet by their fridge, and Marinette took down a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and poured rather generously. A Monday night dinner after a long day didn’t always call for wine but given everything that had happened and was about to happen, she needed it.

“Anyway,” said Marinette as Alya put the roast chicken on top of their stove to cool, “the Act III rehearsal was basically the same, because Adrien and Rose are in the mazurka, and I’m in the mazurka, so Gabriel made me do the same thing.”

“Nice,” said Alya. Marinette shrugged.

“Girl, why are you complaining? This is like, what you’ve waited for since we were at school.” Alya waved a sharp kitchen knife at her. “Besides, you and Adrien _are_ a good height match. Not that you and Luka aren’t a good height match but you look really good with Adrien.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re my friend.”

“No, I’m not,” said Alya. “Gabriel wouldn’t let you do it if he didn’t think so, either. You know how he is.”

She did know. Gabriel was impossibly insufferable when it came to staging, and everything had to flow perfectly and precisely, no stumbles or awkward pairs. Marinette sighed into her glass.

“I wanna die,” she said mournfully into her wine.

“Don’t we all,” said Alya. “It’s like Gabriel purposely wants us to die by putting contract renewal and casting back-to-back.”

“Tell me about it.” Marinette took a sip of wine. “Did you have your meeting yet?”

“Nope, and I’m pretty sure I’m not getting promoted, which is fine. Like, I don’t _like_ it, but it’s not unfair. Though,” she said with an eyebrow raised, “I think I know who _is_ getting promoted.”

Marinette rolled her eyes. “We all know Adrien’s going to. And it’s fair because he’s just—”

“—The most amazing hot ball of fire and talent? No, silly,” said Alya. “I was talking about _you_.”

“He’s probably—wait, what? Me? No, no, no.” Marinette puts her glass and fork down. “What?”

“Girl, I’m so over your _I’m Marinette and I’m not even that great at ballet—_ come on! You did like half the leading solo roles when we were in school! I swear to god, you were like, the most amazing Kitri there ever was.”

“Chloé got just as many,” said Marinette rather indignantly. “And with Adrien, no less.”

“Yes, but you know sometimes it’s fucked up,” said Alya, her fork down and eyebrows up. “Besides, you’re partnering with him now.”

“So?” mumbled Marinette, looking down at her salad.

“ _So_ , you can finally follow your damn heart and hook up with that boy!”

“Oh my god.”

“I’m serious!” Alya crossed her arms. “I love you, but c’mon, you’ve been mooning your ass over him since he walked into class that very first day when we were fifteen god damn years old.”

“That is _not_ what happened.”

“Fine, but for real, honest to god,” Alya sighed dramatically. “If you don’t get it, then I’m going to drink myself stupid and throw myself into the Seine.”

 

 

 

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng,” said Gabriel Agreste absently, looking over his files.

“Yes, that’s me,” said Marinette nervously. His fingers skirted over the papers, pen between thumb and index, and her eyes followed.

He stopped suddenly, and looked at her over the rim of his glasses. “It’s to my understanding that your graduation variation was _The Firebird_?”

“Uh—yes, it was.” It had been a while ago, actually. She was still rather fond of the variation, but it still surprised her that Gabriel Agreste of all people remembered what her graduation solo was.

“Good, good,” he said, shuffling papers again. “I remember it very clearly. I thought to myself, _that girl has the makings of someone who will go very far_.”

Marinette gulped. “R-really?”

“Yes.” He eyed her carefully over his sheet of papers. “Of course, you still have a while yet. There’s the matter of your feet, which can come out a little sloppy sometimes, and your turns have some work, still. But I think you’ll do well. How are your rehearsals with Adrien?”

“Good,” she said.

“Good, good,” he said again, his gaze softening. He put the papers aside. “I hope that you might be motivated to work harder next year as a _coryphée_. I see a lot of great potential in you.”

“ _C-coryphée?_ ”

“Yes,” said Gabriel. “I know you’re quite young, but I think you’re ready for it.”

He was right. It was all very unorthodox. But Marinette didn’t trust herself to speak around such an important person, not when she was still trying to process this development. “Th-thank you, sir,” she said, trying to keep it as brief as possible.

“Thank _you_ ,” he said in return. “I can only hope that I can watch you grow even better than before. You and Adrien are a good pair. I should have paired you two sooner.”

Her heart skipped a beat. It was something she’d thought, certainly, looking in the mirror during rehearsal, on the brief moments where they were looking at their reflections to correct the lines of their body, but to hear that from Adrien’s own father, even her boss, the former ballet star who demanded perfection from all the dancers in the company… She didn’t know what to say to that, so she stammered out a quick “Thank you,” and left.

“Well?” Alya said, as Marinette closed the door behind her.

It was in Alya’s demanding look that she realized suddenly how much she wanted to burst out into laughing—of fear, of joy, of something not entirely material. Instead Marinette smiled, shrugged, and Alya needed no more words.

“Marinette, oh my god! _Oh my god!_ ” She squeezed Marinette round the waist and spun her around. “I _knew_ you could do it!”

“I didn’t even do anything, Gabriel’s the one promoting me,” said Marinette sheepishly, and Alya put a finger on Marinette’s lips.

“Shush,” she said. “We’re celebrating. Wine and macaroons, on me.”

“Maybe later,” said Marinette, grinning apologetically. “I’m gonna run through a few things in the studio for a bit. _Swan Lake,_ you know.”

Alya sighed. “Always hardworking, Marinette. Well, I’ll leave you to it, I guess.”

“Thanks, Alya.”

They parted ways, Marinette’s heart still thumping. She’d sort of lied to Alya: the _Swan Lake_ rehearsals were going fine, though they were tough and demanded a lot from her stamina. All she really needed to do in the studio tonight was blow off some steam and _dance_ , not for Gabriel or for any of the ballet mistresses, but for herself.

At this hour, most of the rehearsals were finished, and it didn’t take long to find an empty studio. She put her phone into a speaker, and let the music take her—the music was _Firebird_ , one of her favorite roles from school, but she threw in bits from _Swan Lake_ , parts from the fondly-remembered _Don Quixote,_ parts from Balanchine ballets she’d taught herself by watching performances flipped the wrong way around, and parts she’d learned from hip-hop classes on the off-season, and bits that just felt right. Wherever the music went, she went too. There wasn’t any ballet master to watch her footwork and turnout with a hawk’s eye, there wasn’t any audience judging. She just moved.

Dancing like this had always given her a kind of clarity. She could feel every inch of her limbs and head alive, like a crisp breeze on a new spring day, filling her lungs and insides with fresh energy that crackled and fueled her. She turned and snapped her head as quickly as she could, jumped and split her legs as far as she could and reached for the lights as much as she could. If only for that moment, if only she could take off completely and fly.

The music finished and she was left, breathing deeply from the exertion, one hand reaching for the ceiling. She felt a little empty once the music was gone. Maybe, even, if it had kept going, she really could have found flight.

There was a movement in the doorway, and she turned to look, caught a flash of blond hair.

“A-Adrien?” she stuttered breathlessly.

He sheepishly stepped into the room, shoulders hunched shyly, like a little boy caught stealing cookies from a jar. “Sorry,” he said, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. “I heard music and saw you dancing—I opened the door and you didn’t even notice.”

She flushed. Had she really been so stuck in her own world to not hear that? “Sorry,” she managed. “I mean, I can clear out soon, if that’s what they want.”

“No, I just happened to be here because my rehearsal went a little late.” He walked up to her. “What was that, by the way? The choreography.”

“O-oh,” said Marinette, laughing nervously. “Um, it was just something I came up with on the fly.”

His eyes widened, and he let out a slow whistle. “Impressive.”

“Not really,” she said, giving what was probably the ugliest smile of her life, but he didn’t seem disgusted at all.

“I can’t do that, though,” he said easily. “I’m kind of lame at doing stuff that isn’t taught to me.”

“N-no, no you’re really good! I wish my form was as good as yours!” She clasped her hands, just for something to do with them. “Really, I’m not even sure why I got promoted, I mean, Gabriel said he saw a lot of potential but, I mean, I don’t know.”

“Really,” he said, eyes wide. He put a hand to his chin, like he had suddenly put two and two together. Then, after a moment, he smiled warmly and put a hand on Marinette’s shoulder. “Congratulations.”

“T-thank you,” she said, more a question than a reply.

“I have to head out,” he said, his hands fluttering around his neck, his pockets, the strap of his bag, with newfound nervousness, “but I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Of course,” she said. “In rehearsal.”

“Yes!” said Adrien. “I’ll text you!”

And with another kind, warm smile, he waved and left. She waved back, and when he was gone, she let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> swan lake staging tends to vary wildly with the company, especially with large not-so-iconic dances like the waltz in act i
> 
> EDIT 21 AUGUST 2018: the paris opera ballet generally still use rudolf nureyev's choreography ([here is a not-so-great quality version of his version of the ballet](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F4nwS5s0bS4) YES i know his makeup looks goofy leave them alone it was the 1960s) which.... personally i'm not a huge fan of but hey nureyev was important to the POB so


	2. Chapter 2

The pay raise that came with promotion wouldn’t kick in until after the spring season was done, and there was still work to do, a ballet to put on, rehearsals to attend. The week passed by with several swan rehearsals and physical therapy room visits and pointe shoe sewing, and every night Marinette went home, forced her feet into an ice bath, and collapsed into bed, tired to the bone.

She tried not to think too hard about the strange encounter with Adrien. After all, it was just a chance encounter, and an embarrassing one at that. He talked to her sometimes, and Alya was close with Nino, who was close to Adrien, but they hadn’t spent a lot of time around each other outside rehearsals, and even then it was hard work and focus on the dance. That was it.

At least, until the end of that week.

When Marinette got home that day, Alya flounced out of her room wearing a bathrobe, a mascara wand in her hand.

“Marinette!” she trilled.

Marinette sighed. Alya was up to something.

“What is it?” she asked a little dryly.

“Alix just invited me and a bunch of other people to their house tonight to drink and hang out and let off some steam from work!” Alya grabbed Marinette’s hands. “Let’s _gooooo_.”

Marinette groaned. “Alya, it’s so late. Honestly I just want to soak my feet in cold water and, I don’t know, have a glass of wine, watch a bad movie. That’s what we do, like, every Saturday night.”

Alya shrugged casually. “Okay, then,” she said nonchalantly. “You can drink at home by yourself, but I’ll go drinking with my friends: Juleka, Rose, Nino, _Adrien…_ ”

Of course Adrien was there. Of course. Alya was so sneaky. Marinette dragged her hand down her face. “ _Fine_ , I’m going.”

Alya waltzed around her. “I knew you would come around!”

“Only because it was you doing the persuading,” Marinette joked.

“ _And_ a certain man who goes by the good name of Adrien Agreste.” Alya waved her mascara wand. “Now go get cleaned up. And wear the red dress. You look the best in that one.”

They left at ten-thirty for Alix’s apartment that she shared with her older brother, Jalil. He answered the door when they arrived.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said, awkwardly, and slunk away while Alix came up to them.

“Mari! Alya! Come in! And don’t mind Jalil,” said Alix with a laugh. “He’s off to read again, like the bookworm he is.”

“He’s okay with all this?” Marinette asked.

Alix shrugged. “As long as we don’t get too rowdy. I figured people could use the pick-me-up, anyway, especially since Rose hasn’t been in class because of her ankle,” she added.

Rose was sitting off to the side in the main living space next to Juleka and sipping from a glass of wine. When Marinette and Alya entered she lit up. “Marinette! Alya!”

“It’s good to see you!” said Marinette leaning down to kiss Rose’s cheek. “How’s your ankle?”

Rose sighed dramatically. “It’s another four weeks until they’ll let me dance again,” she said. “I can’t walk around or do anything.”

“You’ll still come to a few rehearsals, though, right?” asked Alya. “I remember I had to when I broke my foot last year.”

“Gabriel’s talked to me about it, but hopefully it’ll be closer to dress rehearsal.” Rose clasped her hands together. “Then I’ll get to see everyone in their beautiful swan costumes!”

Slowly the rest of the guests trickled in—Nathanael by himself, Kim and Max together, Aurore and Mireille separately, Mylène and Ivan from the stage management crew, Juleka’s older brother Luka who waved a quick hello before going to say hello to Jalil—but none of them were who Marinette was anxiously anticipating.

She was watching Kim and Max heatedly debate the jumping heights of various animals compared to Kim’s own jumping height when the doorbell rang and there was an exclamation of “Nino! Adrien!”

Her heart jumped, and she let out a little squeak. Alya shot her a look, which she thoroughly ignored, instead walking— _not_ fleeing—briefly to the kitchen to search out a glass of rosé.

“ _Finally_ my DJ is here,” Alix said from the doorway.

“Not my fault that you live on the other side of town,” said Nino.

“What Nino here _means_ is that he’s grateful that you even invited him to DJ for you,” said Adrien, and Marinette poured more wine into her cup and downed it.

She sighed in satisfaction, before hearing footsteps, and then: “Hey, Marinette.”

It was Adrien. She whirled around, spilled a little wine on the counter, and miraculously didn’t squeak this time around. “H-Hey, Adrien!”

“Oh, is that rosé?” He peered over her shoulder. “Do you mind pouring me some?”

“Y-yeah, sure,” she managed, trying to keep her hand steady. _You are utterly nervous for no reason_ , she tried to convince herself. Except the fact, perhaps, that Adrien Agreste was standing a foot away from her out of his own free will, not because of some choreography, and not because their boss had told them to. This was outside of work. This was _the real Adrien Agreste_.

He didn’t seem to notice anything. Even now, he swirled the wine around in the glass, thoroughly unperturbed with her inner turmoil, and sniffed dramatically. “Ahh, _fancy_ ,” he said. “Delicate notes of alcohol and grapes. Wonderful.”

He grinned at her.

“It’s just cheap grocery store wine!” she said, trying not to giggle.

“I know,” he said, and drank. Then: “Wow, you can really taste it. I thought Alix’s dad was rich. Doesn’t he work at the Louvre?”

“She probably bought it herself,” said Marinette. “I mean, it’s not like we get paid much. And it’s just a casual get-together. We can’t all be rich and buy expensive nice wine. I mean,” she added, feeling her eyes bug out a little in panic, “not that—not that being rich is like, a bad thing, or anything, I mean, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” said Adrien, laughing. “I’m not so much of a snob to look down on Alix just for buying affordable booze.” He tipped his head towards the main living space. “Anyway: shall we?”

Alya scooted to make room for them on the couch—though, in Marinette’s opinion, not nearly enough for them to sit comfortably, and they ended up squeezed together, Marinette’s thighs almost on top of Adrien’s. She drank deeply from her wine glass. She needed it.

“You want me to get another glass for you?” Adrien asked when Marinette finished off the wine.

She blinked a little bit before she shook her head. “No, I’m good. Besides,” she said, wriggling a little bit, “it’s probably hard for you to get out.”

“You might be right,” he said with a grin. “We’re quite stuck. What shall we do then, my lady?”

Her chest fluttered at the nickname. “Perhaps find a way out,” she said.

“I rather like being stuck in this position,” he said playfully. “It’s quite comfortable.”

“All the more reason to get out,” she joked.

He put a hand over his heart dramatically. “You wound me.”

“Then what do you say we do?”

“Make pleasant conversation while savoring this glass of wine?” Adrien swirled his glass of rosé, grinning widely.

“About what?”

His eyes darted around, his mouth in a thoughtful pout. “I don’t know. I feel like all we do is dance, so I don’t know what to talk about aside from that...”

“Well,” she said slowly. “I… I draw. Clothes. And if I have the time I make them.”

Adrien widened his eyes. “Really?”

“Y-yeah. I mean, I’ve always loved making stuff. I just love… creating things. It’s so exciting to figure it out, feel your way through, adjust for this and that, and make something entirely new that only you could have come up with.” She sighed a little. “Lately I’ve been too tired in between rehearsals that all I really wanna do when I come home is watch a movie, but yeah. I do it in the off-season or between seasons.”

“That’s super cool, though,” said Adrien, shuffling his hands and feet awkwardly. “Like, I can’t draw anything but stick figures.”

“Are you kidding me?” Marinette laughed. “I love stick figures.”

“Well, what I’m _trying_ to say,” he said, with a raised eyebrow, “is that I really got the short end of the _stick_ when it comes to artistic talent.”

It took her a moment to realize, and she spent a second looking at him, at the wall, at her glass, struggling not to laugh, and settled for a good-natured sigh. “Oh my god,” she said.

Adrien grinned. “Pretty good, right?”

“No,” she said, but she couldn’t help smiling back. It felt easy around him, to joke around and have fun, laugh at his puns, make conversation with him. At least, it was easier with a glass of wine in her system.

Three or four glasses later—she couldn’t really remember how or when—she started bobbing her head to the music, and Alya, noticing, laughed and dragged her off the couch.

“Dance with me, Mari,” she laughed, and Marinette was relaxed enough that she could feel the beat riding through her veins, and knew exactly how to pop and stiffen her limbs to its rhythm, swimming through the watery noise with slower, sensual rolling.

“Ooh, Mari,” Alix said with a bottle in her hand and glee in her laughter. “I didn’t know you had _moves!_ ”

Marinette laughed. “I take a hip-hop class on the off-season,” she said, stretching her arms upward. “It’s like, the opposite of ballet but it keeps me grounded and fresh, y’know?”

“What?” Nino pushed his way forward. “No way. That came outta nowhere! I’m the hip-hop guy around here!”

“Dance off!” yelled Alix. “Form a circle!”

“No, it’s fine,” Marinette said, laughing a little, as the circle of people jostled her into the middle. “I’m—”

She caught Adrien’s eye, then, and lost her train of thought in his wide-eyed, fascinated look. She swallowed nervously, and was suddenly aware of how drunk she was—a dance-off? Really? But he nodded and gave her a look that seemed to read encouraging, before she was jostled again into the circle, and Nino gave her the _I’m looking at you_ gesture.

The music shifted into something a little faster-paced, with a heavy synth bass, and she closed her eyes and relished it, breathed the beat in, and exhaled while her limbs moved and her hips swayed. The cheers of everyone else around her seemed far away, drowned out by the echoing beat of the music.

It wasn’t so much of a dance-off as it became a conversation between them—Nino mirrored her, and did a variation of a hip pop and lock, and she mirrored it and threw in a little bit of a top rock, and he got a bit of a glint in his eye then, and he started off on a round of fancy footwork, twisting his feet in and out, stepping left and right, turning around with sharp angles. She wasn’t about to be deterred, though, and all the years of picking up combinations after seeing them exactly once paid off as she easily caught up with him.

“Oh, come _on_ ,” Nino groaned. He fell to the floor, throwing his hands up in defeat. “I concede!”

Alya grabbed Marinette’s hand. “The winner, everyone!” she yelled, and everyone cheered. Marinette gave a silly elaborate bow with balletic _port de bras_.

She stumbled as she stood up, crashed into a warm chest, and a pair of familiar hands caught her around the waist. “Whoa, there,” said the chest, and she froze, recognizing the voice.

“Are you okay?” continued Adrien, bending down to look at her face. “Nothing broken? I’d hate to have my partner for this season get a broken ankle like the other one.”

She blinked at him. “I’m-I’m good.”

He sighed in relief, and when they met gazes again, his eyes were full of… _wonder_.

That was it. That look on his face on that day he’d walked in on her dancing in the empty studio by herself, was _wonder_. At her. Dancing.

The room felt warm, but she couldn’t quite tell if it was the alcohol or her embarrassment or Alix simply just turning her thermostat a few degrees too high. Adrien, for some reason, still hadn’t moved his hands off her waist.

“Too much to drink?” asked Adrien with a teasing grin.

“M-maybe,” said Marinette. “I mean, I’m just a little sweaty, I guess. Need some air.”

“I’ll take you to the balcony, then,” he said.

Alix’s balcony off the kitchen was not very big, served more as a fire escape, and barely had enough room to fit two people, but they squeezed in and managed. It was a little cold, and Adrien put his denim jacket around her shoulders when she shivered.

“Feel better?” he asked her.

She leaned on the sliding door behind them. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he said.

The Eiffel Tower was visible in the distance, sparkling brightly. The wind ruffled their hair and they sat, shoulder to shoulder. She could feel him leaning a little bit into her, and cautiously leaned back into him in response.

“I’m glad,” he said after a moment.

“Glad?” she echoed slowly.

“Well,” he said, and stopped. Then: “I’m not glad that Rose got injured, because that’s awful, but I’m glad that you’ve been really… good about it. Understanding of the situation.”

“Well—I mean, it’s—anyone would do it,” Marinette managed.

“I guess,” he said. “I don’t really know anyone like you, though.”

Her breath caught between her teeth.

“You’re multi-talented, great at ballet but, also hip-hop, and drawing, and sewing, and you’re really confident and graceful when you dance… I can see why my dad promoted you,” Adrien admitted.

She didn’t say anything. She probably wouldn’t have been able to hear them over how loudly her heart was thumping.

“You kind of remind me of my mom,” he said absently. A beat passed. Then he jerked his head suddenly, and whipped around to look at her, struck with painful realization. “I mean! Not in that way! But like! In the way that you guys are both really amazing dancers and are super independent women and stuff!”

She burst out laughing.

“Wh-what’s so funny?” he asked.

It struck her as a funny situation, the opposite of that first day in waltz rehearsal, him laughing at her babbling. Now he looked so scared that it was cute, and she couldn’t help it. “Nothing,” she said. “I mean, I really didn’t think anything weird until you brought it up.”

He gave her a look. She laughed again.

“Anyway,” he said, sighing. “I can see why my dad promoted you. You’re really good.”

“So are you,” Marinette countered.

“I guess, but…” He shrugged. “I wonder sometimes if my dad promoted me just because I’m his son and I have to follow in his footsteps.”

It was a strangely vulnerable thing to admit. It wasn’t like they were total strangers; after all they’d been to ballet school together, and she saw him almost every day in company class, but she hadn’t… this person, here, Adrien Agreste, was not the same one who had the high sauté and the crisp batteries and easygoing stage-ready smile.

 _Life must be tough as Adrien Agreste_. She hadn’t really thought about it before, but now, his green eyes downcast and faraway, it was all the more present.

“That’s… not unreasonable,” she tried slowly. “But I do think you have a lot of talent, too.”

He picked at a stray thread in his pants, not answering her, maybe out of quiet disagreement or thoughtful reverie. She tucked her denim jacket around her a little more tightly, and watched as he sorted out his thoughts.

“Sorry that you kind of got dragged into it,” he said finally. “Even if I’m only in the background I’m… kind of expected to dance opening night, and....”

“I know,” she said.

Adrien smiled at her—genuinely, warmly, softly. It wasn’t a shit-eating grin that he put on for a lame joke or silly pun, or a showy one he wore onstage, but a real, soft, warm one—one that she’d only seen when he was looking at her.

“Thanks,” he said.

He leaned into her, warm body pressing against the denim jacket he’d put around her shoulders, his blond hair brushing her cheek, and she tried not to move so to still her loudly beating heart and to chill her burning face.

They stayed for a minute, but it felt longer than that. It felt _right_.

 

 

 

 

Oddly yet expectedly enough, life resumed as normal afterwards. Rehearsals ramped up, she sewed pointe shoes, the therapist massaged her back and calves, her feet went into salted ice baths every night, and she tried not to think too hard about what Adrien might have meant when he told her he “didn’t know many people like her.”

She was eating lunch out of a Styrofoam container on a Thursday afternoon, her hair still high in a bun from class, when Adrien sat down next to her and asked, “Do you want to go over the _Swan Lake_ mazurka tonight? Rehearsals are tomorrow, and…” He trailed off, his mouth stretching in a mildly nervous way.

She couldn’t say no—the practical reasons being that, well, Adrien still had to get used to her center of weight, and even if he was doing an amazing job at knowing how to pick her up and put her down and hold her at all the parts of the dance, auditions were coming up soon, and of course Adrien Agreste, newly promoted _coryphée_ , son of Gabriel Agreste the former ballet star turned artistic director and ballet master, had no place not dancing in the first cast on the ever-important opening night.

The non-practical reasons, well, she really couldn’t say no, not when the Adrien in her head smiled and told her how understanding she was, not when the Alya in her head seemed to wave her hands and raise her eyebrows in a way that said _Well, Marinette?_

“Sure,” she found herself saying, and he grinned.

“Great!” he said. “Oh, and I thought we could also go over the waltz, too, so we might go a bit late. You can stop by dinner at my place, if you want.”

“Y-your place?” she squeaked.

“It’s close by the theatre,” he said. “Unless you live closer?”

“No, but—”

“It’s fine,” he insisted. “It’s the least I can do.”

It was a bit much, she thought. She couldn’t shake the thought of it all, especially when it got to the time she had to go meet Adrien in the studio, and they started from the top. There was never really any romance, she thought, in the dirty work of learning steps, figuring out where to stand, how fast to turn, how to jump into his grip so he wouldn’t fall or drop her, but maybe it differed from person to person. Maybe it was different because it was _Adrien Agreste_ , in all his kindness and warmth, his green eyes entirely focused on her and her alone.

That was unnerving. She stumbled on one of the turns, trying not to think too hard about his gaze, and he had to catch her around the waist, lifting her a little bit off the ground so she could regain her footing.

“Are you okay?” Adrien asked. “You aren’t dancing like your usual self.”

She wasn’t even _aware_ that Adrien thought she had a “usual self” and that she wasn’t dancing up to it. Even more embarrassing.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m fine.”

“Are you tired?”

Truthfully, yes. But his arm was still around her waist and they were standing much closer, and she had no room, really, to be tired. The concerned quirk of his eyebrow was too close for her to think straight.

“A little bit,” she finally managed. The look in his green eyes softened, and his hand shifted from its place on her waist to her shoulder.

“Well, we can stop here, then,” he said. “I think I’ve gotten a feel for it, anyway. Hopefully Mendeleiev won’t call us out too much, tomorrow.”

He moved away to put his shoes away in his bag, stashed in the corner by the mirrors, and Marinette watched, not trusting herself to move, her heart racing at the emptiness of the room. The air was surprisingly taut with some form of intimacy. Before it had been full with work and dance and sweat, but now it was rather disconcerting how empty it was, and how pronounced their twosome became.

It was raining when they both left the theatre. She put her hand out, felt the drops of rain splash on her palm, and sighed.

“I forgot my umbrella,” she mumbled to herself. “Of course I forgot my umbrella.”

Adrien, walking up beside her, opened his own umbrella, grinning. “This is kind of like when we first met, don’t you think?” he joked.

Of course she remembered that. She’d still thought Adrien was that kind of person who hung out with Chloé and thought those shenanigans that she pulled were fun. The stereotypes she’d heard about thumbtacks in pointe shoes were silly; pointe shoes did enough damage to your feet already, but sometimes she would find gum in her soft flat shoes, or a can of hairspray suspiciously empty.

Neither were circumstances she much liked to think about. They were more or less working adults now. Chloé was past them, too, though she wasn’t above dirty glances or dramatic overreactions to disappointing castings.

Besides, Adrien had never been about any of that.

“Where’s your place?” Marinette asked him instead.

“This way,” he said cheerfully, and placing his free hand on her waist, guided her close to his side under his umbrella, and started walking.

She hoped a little desperately that he couldn’t see how much her face was burning.

The walk, as he said, wasn’t far, and went up a few flights of stairs—“my early morning workout,” he joked with a cat-like grin—and through a red door to a small apartment with a modest space and kitchen. A few books sat opened and stacked on top of each other on the tables, an upright piano was shoved unceremoniously into a corner between the kitchen doorway and the washroom, and, on the wall above the couch, a black and white poster of a man in mid elegant _cabriole_ jump.

“My father,” said Adrien, noticing Marinette’s staring. “It’s a reminder of what I have to live up to.”

He slid past Marinette before she could say anything—because she definitely _thought_ things that might have cut out a scene with a lonely figure holding out an umbrella—and made his way into the kitchen. “Make yourself comfortable, by the way,” he said, his voice floating out from the doorway. “Let me know if you want anything to drink. I think I have a couple bottles of wine to choose from.”

“I’ll just have some water,” said Marinette. “It’s a weekday after all. Don’t wanna dehydrate too much.”

He gave a cute little two-finger salute from the doorway. “For food, I don’t have much other than pasta, if that’s okay with you?”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” she said, still awkwardly standing around by the sofa, looking at all the things littered about. Books filled with photographs and text and music scores, photographs of a beautiful blonde woman—his mother?—dressed in a long tutu and smiling at the camera, a slim fencing sword displayed over the flat-screen television. It was almost overwhelming, how lived-in the apartment was. Adrien was a _person_ and he lived here.

“Dinner’s ready, if you want to sit down in the kitchen,” Adrien said, interrupting her thoughts.

She turned to see him looking at her, and his expression changed from open to apologetic. “Sorry,” he said quickly, running a head over the back of his neck. “There’s not a lot of room, I know.”

“No, I like it,” said Marinette. “It’s cozy.”

He beamed at her. “Father hates it,” he said as they sat down to eat. “He thinks I’m crazy for living in such a tiny space, but I love it. I could live with him in the huge house if I wanted, and he wants me to, still, but I wanted to try living by myself.”

“Does he not want you to live by yourself?”

“No, he fought me a lot when I was trying to move out, but eventually he came around.” Adrien picked up his fork. “Besides, I see him every day at the theatre. I might as well live with him.”

She laughed, and when she looked up at him, she saw him looking away quickly like he’d been caught. Her heart skipped a beat.

“I, uh, I just live by myself,” she said, trying not to feel flustered. “Or, actually, with Alya. But my parents are still near and I still visit them a lot and have dinner with them, and stuff. But mostly I just live with Alya and we have a tiny apartment too, but I at least get my own room. Because Alya kind of snores. I mean,” she added, putting her fork down and scratching her cheek, “I mean, like don’t tell her that, because she hates when I tell anyone that, but she does and it used to keep me up at night sometimes, at school.”

He was giving her such a strange look again, the same one from before, but Marinette swallowed her fear and forced herself to look straight into the sun—his amused half-grin that was somehow… so incredibly _warm_ that she felt the words dry up in her mouth.

“Sorry,” she mumbled and picked her fork up again to spear a few pieces of penne pasta. “I didn’t mean to ramble like that.”

“It’s fine,” said Adrien. “I don’t mind. Are you going to eat?”

“O-oh, um, yeah,” she said, laughing nervously and moving to pick up her own fork, but her shaky hand knocked over her water glass instead.

“Let me,” said Adrien at the same time she said “Sorry,” and they stood up at the same time, reaching for the napkin stand, flinching when their fingers brushed.

“Sorry,” she said again, grabbing a few to dab at her pants.

“It’s okay,” he said easily, pressing napkins to the wet part of the table. “Really, it’s fine. It’s just water.”

She still felt bad and embarrassed, but after picking up the water glass and wiping off the table, he sat back down and finished his dinner like nothing had happened. She picked up her own fork and started eating again, too, slowly, and by the time she’d worked her way through half of her pasta, he was already finished and moving about the kitchen to clean up.

“Don’t worry,” Adrien said, noticing her mouth half-open beginning to form an apology. “Take your time! I can walk you home.”

“Wh—are you sure?” she asked, feeling her face turn warm.

“Of course!” He cracked the window open and stuck his hand out. “It’s still raining, anyway, so I can be your umbrella holder.”

He turned back at her and smiled, and she could almost feel the steam rising off her cheeks. “Uh, yeah, that’d—I appreciate you! I mean, I can appreciate that! You! Holding my umbrella!” she squeaked, laughing nervously, _again_.

“At your service, my lady,” he said, with a laugh—with her? at her?—and a mock bow.

That nickname again. Her chest fluttered.

Their walk home was quick. Marinette still had a pair of pointe shoes to sew for class tomorrow and she’d wanted to get a cold soak in so her feet would actually fit into character shoes for rehearsal. She wished, though, that he could hold onto her shoulder for a bit longer so they could fit under the umbrella neat and dry, that he could laugh a little more, and catch her again when she stumbled over a puddle.

At the door of her apartment building, he let go and gave her a smile.

“Good night!” he said. “See you tomorrow!”

“Yeah, see you,” she said, a little dreamily, watching his tall figure walk away. Her shoulder was still warm from where he’d held it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...in which we see that ballet dancers are people, too.
> 
> this was going to be posted yesterday (i was aiming for a weekly thing, ish) but then i got really busy.
> 
> ALSO i'm really sweet on the headcanon that adrien in a kwami-less au has a cat named plagg but i couldn't really fit it in. sad stuff.


	3. Chapter 3

“So,” said Alya, snipping ribbons neatly with her scissors. “How was your date with Adrien last night?”

“It wasn’t a date!” said Marinette reflexively. “We just rehearsed and then had dinner at his ap— _ow!”_

She sucked her pricked thumb in pain. Alya rolled her eyes.

“You’re just like a teenager still when it comes to stuff like this,” she said, turning her gaze back to her needle. “When are you going to realize that was totally a date?”

Marinette watched Alya sew the ribbons onto her shoes unhurriedly. “It was just something nice he did for me,” she said, though by the way Alya sighed she could tell neither of them were really convinced.

“Well, whatever,” Marinette mumbled. “It was just a one-time thing, anyway. He’s never gonna look my way again because this was just a crazy coincidence because he literally always partners with almost everyone except me.”

She felt, rather than saw, Alya grinning like she was about to burst into laughter. “ _Anyway,_ ” she said, putting down her finished pointe shoes. “I think casting comes out today. You wanna go look at the board?”

Alya looked at her half-darned pointe shoes and sighed. “Fine, I’ll finish this later.”

The casting was usually posted on the board by the lounge, and Alix and Kim were already hovering there, Kim laughing because Alix was too short to properly look at it.

“This is why you’re still a _quadrille_ ,” said Alix with a sniff. “Mlle Bustier can’t stand your stupidity.”

Kim laughed in her face. “You’re just mad because I made first cast and you didn’t.”

“Hey nerds, mind if me and Marinette get a chance to look at the casting?” said Alya with a raised eyebrow.

They moved out of the way, clamoring about a rehearsal and more things about height and rank, and Marinette scanned the paper to find her name. _First cast—Marinette Dupain-Cheng. Second cast—Marinette Dupain-Cheng_.

Internally, she groaned a little bit. Performances were going to be horrible. Her toes ached at the thought of dancing all day almost every single day for at least two weeks. She made a mental note to buy more painkillers and magnesium on her way home, if only to get through the day without her feet hurting too bad.

“Marinette,” said Alya slowly. “You’re seeing this same thing I am, right?”

“Yeah, I’m in the corps for swans and peasants and the mazurka in Act III.” She shrugged. “All of the casts, and I’m gonna die come performance time.”

“No, Marinette,” interrupted Alya. “Act I.”

“Well, yeah, random peasant couple number three hundred, as expected,” sighed Marinette. “I’m gonna die during shows, especially since I’m doing the other cast too.”

“No, Marinette, _look_ ,” Alya insisted. “Under your name.”

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes and looked where Alya was pointing.

Under her name, printed neatly in black ink, were the words _Adrien Agreste_.

Behind her, Chloé let out a huff, and turned sharply on her heel and walked off towards the lockers. In her storm of emotion, she hit Adrien, smacking him in the shoulder and leaving him watching her walk away with shock.

He looked back at Alya and Marinette with mild confusion, and Marinette gulped nervously as he made his way towards them.

“What happened with her?” he asked, his gaze travelling over to the paper. “Oh! Casting’s out. Looks like we’re gonna be a team for this run, Marinette!”

“Y-yeah,” she stammered. Over his shoulder, Alya raised her eyebrows at her.

He didn’t notice Alya making faces and instead just nodded at her with a degree of satisfaction. “Well, I have rehearsal in like, ten minutes, so I’ll see you later? Dinner at my place after Act III rehearsal?”

“Yeah, sure!” she squeaked in a voice about three octaves higher than her usual, and behind Adrien’s raised eyebrow and careful “o-kay,” Alya made an expression halfway between laughter and composure.

“Shut up,” said Marinette once Adrien had left jauntily. “Shut up.”

“Get home before midnight!” Alya wiggled her eyebrows.

“ _Shut up_.”

 

 

 

 

When Marinette arrived at ten o’clock in the morning the next day, Adrien was rolling his foot under a tennis ball while talking to Alya, who was looking at her phone while in a side split.

It was bizarre, to say the least. Adrien usually stood with Nino in their usual corner between the two windows on the far side of the room, and most mornings started out with the two in a push-up contest or headstand contest or something silly that drew everyone’s attention. Marinette and Alya usually sat and stretched in a corner a little distance away. It was their spot.

Except, apparently, now, also Adrien’s.

Marinette took a deep breath, readjusted her grip on her bag, and approached.

Alya looked up from her phone as she walked over. “Good morning, Marinette!” she said loudly, putting her phone down and smiling a little too brightly. “Aroused from the dead, I see.”

Marinette scrunched her nose up. “Barely,” she said. “Not like you helped.”

“Hey, Marinette,” said Adrien with an easy grin.

“Hey, Adrien,” she returned just as casually, reaching out a hand to lean on the _barre_ —and missing, and barely catching herself. Alya hid a smile behind her phone.

“Did you sleep well?” Adrien, ever thankfully oblivious, switched the tennis ball from his right foot to his left. “You were pretty tired yesterday night, I think.”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Alya with a slight smirk. “I was already soundly in bed when Marinette got home.”

“I didn’t mean to keep her so late,” said Adrien with a half-groan. “Marinette was sewing her pointe shoes and then I got curious and asked her how to do it.”

Marinette rolled her eyes. “Then you pricked your fingers three times and had to put on your Hello Kitty bandages.”

“Hello Kitty is an icon, and you know it.” Adrien sniffed, then grinned at them both. “She makes my fingers _purr_ -etty.”

Alya gave Marinette a look like, _really, this is the man you choose to love?_

“I’m here to stretch, not listen to silly puns,” said Marinette, sinking down into a split, but she was struggling not to smile, and that only seemed to make Adrien smile wider.

“Adri- _chou!_ ”

If anything could cut through any easy conversation, it was Chloé’s high-pitched squeal and her gliding across the floor in soft boots meant to keep her feet warm. Marinette tucked away any exasperation and despair the best she could and put her effort into stretching her hip joints.

“A little bird told me that you got promoted to _coryphée!_ ” Chloé trilled in the meantime. “Me too!”

“I mean, yeah, I did,” said Adrien, a little taken aback.

“You should come stand with me and Sabrina! No need to hang out with these lowly _quadrilles_ , it’s not like you have to do it out of pity—”

“They’re not all _quadrilles,_ Chloé. Marinette’s a _coryphée,_ too. And I’m fine where I am,” he added with an apologetic grin. Marinette’s heart skipped a beat.

Chloé blinked rapidly a few times in mild shock, then spared a glance towards them. “Are you s—”

“Yes,” said Adrien.

She opened and closed her pastel pink mouth a few times, trying to regain her composure. “But—”

“First positions at the _barre_ ,” said Mendeleiev in her commanding nasal voice, clapping her hands to start class, and Chloé gave one more disdainful glance at the group before scurrying off to where Sabrina stood on the other side of the room. Adrien gave them both another lopsided grin before situating himself in front of Marinette.

Mendeleiev started rattling off a combination. It was an easy one with _tendus_ and pointing and flexing, but she had a hard time concentrating. Not when she could see the muscles of Adrien’s back and arms through the tight shirt he was wearing _._ Not when she could notice little details like the way his hair trailed down the back of his neck, the tag on his shirt sticking up, the wrinkle on his elbow when his arm was extended. Forward _tendu—_ nope, it was supposed to be a back _tendu_ , of course. Adrien caught her eye in the mirror and gave her an amused look, before looking forwards again.

Marinette slapped her cheeks mentally. _Get it together_ , she told herself. _Mendeleiev’s gonna come around any second now, and—_

“Stomach, Mlle Dupain-Cheng,” said Madame Mendeleiev. “Feel your supporting leg support you all the way up to your fingertips—good. Good, M Agreste.”

They turned to exercise the other leg, and Adrien caught Marinette’s eye as she turned a little late, and smiled again.

“Breathe,” she muttered to herself. “ _Breathe._ ”

In front of her, Alya shook her head to herself.

After _barre_ , Adrien left their corner to stand by Nino, while Marinette and Alya taped their toes and put their pointe shoes on.

“Good to see that you can form complete sentences around him now,” said Alya in a teasing low voice. Marinette wrinkled her nose, unable to help a grin and tied her ribbons.

It wasn’t so much that Alya’s teasing bothered her. She just hadn’t thought quite so plainly, in comprehendable words, that that had happened. He was simply easy to be around. And he seemed to find her easy to be around, too, to invite her to his house twice already, and she’d already begun to feel comfortable there. It was cozy in a way that she didn’t find anywhere else.

But whatever it was, they certainly weren’t a couple. Couples were items bound so close that they melded into one, and the same sort of feeling went for friends, too, she thought. The shape of her relationship to Adrien wasn’t exactly friendship, but she didn’t think it was entirely out of the question to say it wasn’t. And they certainly weren’t dating.

Before she could think on it any further, Mendeleiev clapped her hands and started marking a combination for center, and they moved to the back of the room to get ready when the piano started.

 

 

 

 

The next week passed without much incident, if she counted more frequent visits to Adrien’s apartment for an after-rehearsal dinner—which she _didn’t_ , she told Alya. Her best friend had only given her a soft eye roll, but it wasn’t an incident of any particular interest, Marinette thought. It was just something that they had become comfortable with, a routine to keep them sane in the rush of rehearsals.

It was nice, actually. She sometimes spent a little longer at Adrien’s place than she might have liked to admit: sitting on his couch sewing her pointe shoes for the next day’s rehearsal while he stretched or did Pilates and watched a silly rom-com, or sometimes they’d do yoga together on the Wiifit board that he’d bought.

Wednesday night, he pulled out two controllers and a CD case that read _Ultimate Mecha Strike V._

“I didn’t know you were into fighting games, of all things,” she said. The cinematic played on the screen, showing fighter robots doing quick fire combos, punctuated by an occasional burning fist or foot.

“This is probably the only one I really play,” he said, handing her a controller. “I like it because it’s really accessible, even to people who aren’t really into fighting games.”

“Oh?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “You’re implying I’m not really into fighting games.”

He looked at her. “Are you?”

She only smirked in reply.

After ten solid losses, Adrien sighed and put down the controller. “Okay, so maybe you _are_ a bit into fighting games,” he conceded. “Where’d you learn to play like that?”

“Oh, I used to play with my dad all the time,” she said, stretching. “But _man_ , I hadn’t played in a while. I was actually pretty off my game.”

His eyes bugged out. “ _Off your game?_ ”

She grinned. “Maybe you just have to get good.”

“I’m getting the ice bath out.”

“Sore loser?” she called after him.

“No,” he said from inside the bathroom, but when he came out, bucket in hand, he was grinning.

The bucket was big enough for them to put their feet in side-by-side under the ice and the Epson salt. Marinette hissed when her soles hit the ice and wriggled her toes.

“The worst part,” she muttered. He grunted in agreement.

They endured the ice for a few silent minutes, her scrolling through her phone absently, him picking up a book and flipping through it at a slow, measured pace. She put her phone down after a minute or two—she wasn’t really doing anything particular with it, but without anything to look at in particular, she found herself looking at Adrien.

He was more than she’d given him credit for: not perfect by any means, a bit lamer in the jokes department than she had expected, and a little more teasing than she’d expected. But above all, there was a softness to it all that she couldn’t tear her eyes away from.

He looked up then. She jumped. “Yes?” he asked, a playful eyebrow raised.

Marinette swallowed nervously. “Nothing.”

“You sure?” Adrien put his book down. “You looked like you wanted to ask me something.”

Had she? She wouldn’t have known, but maybe it wasn’t too far off from what she was thinking.

But where to start?

She gave it some thought, trying to find the safest ground between awkward icebreaker and personally invasive. “Favorite… ballet,” she said finally.

“That’s it?” he asked with a small laugh, then put his chin in his left hand. “Interesting.”

“I can go first,” she offered.

“Go ahead.”

“For me, I think… it’d be _Serenade._ ”

“Ah, Balanchine?”

“Yes,” she sighed. “I love _Swan Lake_ and _Nutcracker_ and all that, but _Serenade_ is… magical and captivating and… so _human._ From beginning to end. It’s like the music and the dance were made together, and the lead parts encompass so much emotion and the stage just… comes alive, you know?”

She tore her eyes away from the empty space filled with her imagination and saw he was smiling at her fondly in a soft way that caught her a bit off guard.

“You’re right,” he said. “I’ve never danced it, but I know what you mean.” He looked off into space, maybe even the same imagining space she’d been staring into. “I don’t know about a favorite, actually. I never really thought about it.”

She felt a little disappointed by that. “Do you have any dance that you really enjoyed doing, at least?” she asked.

He didn’t answer for a minute, his toes wiggling in the ice. “I like dancing the mazurka with you,” he said finally.

She blinked, her heart rate shooting up to a level she couldn’t control. “I—oh,” she said. “Why?”

He shrugged. “It’s fun. People wax a lot about lead roles but I like doing something with everyone and making this super cool architecture onstage. And I like seeing it in _Swan Lake_.”

She knew what he meant—the formation changes as the swans shimmered and flapped their graceful wings were mesmerizing the first time she’d seen it.

“Even just the rehearsals,” he added. “It’s super cool to watch everyone working together to make something amazing. All the swans moving in unison… that’s pretty magical.”

“You watch our rehearsals?” said Marinette, her voice pitching wildly.

“Sometimes,” he admitted sheepishly, a hand on the back of his neck.

She didn’t quite know what to make of that so she asked instead: “What rehearsals do you have tomorrow?”

Adrien moved his hand off his neck, eyebrows twisted in thought. “Don’t… don’t we have a complete Act III run?”

She froze. “We do?”

“I think so.”

Marinette groaned and put her face in her hands. “The worst,” she mumbled into her palms.

“You’re right,” he sighed. “But I think we’ll be okay.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah.” He picked up his book again. “I mean, I think I’ve mostly got it down. And mazurka isn’t as demanding as Act I.”

She gave a grunt of agreement of her own. “I guess I should head home, then, just to be sure, get enough sleep.”

He didn’t reply for a moment. The silence unnerved her, and she looked up from her phone to see him chewing his lip nervously. Then he sat up, and put his book down.

“Okay,” he said, his voice shaking a little. “This might sound… really crazy or really dumb, and you’re free to turn me down but… maybe you could stay here for the night? Then you wouldn’t have to rush like you always seem to, a-and I can wake you up and you wouldn’t have to go home so late.”

The last part came out in a rush of breath, and his eyes were hopefully bright. She blinked, trying to make sense. “I—y-you”—she gulped—“I mean, clothes, and—”

“I can lend you an old T-shirt and boxers,” he said quickly. “Though for class I don’t know if—”

“I have a change of leotards and tights at the theatre,” she said. “It was—just, for the night.”

“Yeah, of course,” he said.

They met eyes and blushed.

“I’ll empty the ice bucket, then,” he said, taking his feet out of the ice. “Feel free to take a shower, do your night routine. Oh, and I can sleep on the couch tonight.”

“I can’t do that!” she said, affronted. “It’s your place; I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“ _No_.”

“ _Yes._ ”

“No!”

She glared at him, willing him to come around. He sighed.

“Well,” said Adrien with a resigned grin. “I could never stand up to you, milady.”

He walked off in search of spare sheets and blankets, whistling the tune of the _Swan Lake_ mazurka jovially, while she stood, her face mildly burning, because he’d called her “milady” _again_.

Priorities. Priorities. She composed herself.

“Uh, I’ll go text Alya that I’m staying here tonight,” she called out.

She brushed her teeth with a spare toothbrush and changed into black T-shirt with colored stripes across the chest—a familiar one, she realized as she put it on. How many times had she seen him wear this T-shirt in company class?

“Hey Marinette,” he greeted her as she walked out, and froze.

“Is there something wrong?” she ventured.

He opened his mouth as if to say something, decided against it, looked off the side awkwardly. “No,” he said finally. “Um, if you need extra blankets, they’re here”—he patted the stack of folded quilts at the foot of the couch—“and if you need anything else, I’ll be in my room. Where I’m sleeping. Like you asked me to.”

He walked off quickly, stiff-backed and awkward, and Marinette could only blink in mild confusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if this was a miraculous ladybug tropes drinking game, i'd be smashed by now—but guess what! i'll ride and die for these two. 
> 
> i haven't responded to everyone's comments but you guys are all so sweet!! i'm really glad that y'all are reading and keeping up and saying such nice things...
> 
> the next update may come slower since it's not... actually finished, and i'm gonna be a little busy in the upcoming month. i know where it's going, i just need to do the legwork, huffs.
> 
> EDIT 21 AUGUST 2018: The ballet Marinette talks about is _Serenade_ which you can watch [HERE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xd9R9S6-9E4&t=48s) and... i don't got words, man, it's one of my favorite ballets out there. yes it's low quality but i think the dancing in this version is the best on the youtubes!


	4. Chapter 4

Nino and Alya both raised their eyebrows when they walked in together to class the next day.

“Well, looks like someone finally made a move,” said Alya.

Marinette and Adrien exchanged looks before turning beet-red.

“Nothing happened,” said Adrien at the same time Marinette said, “It’s not what you think.”

Nino sighed and shook his head. “C’mon bro. Do you have your tennis ball? I need to roll my hips, dude.”

As Adrien and Nino trotted off to their corner, Alya gave Marinette a look and crossed arms.

“Nothing happened!” insisted Marinette, putting her bag down a little too forcefully.

“Hey, calm down, I believe you,” said Alya. “If anything _did_ happen, you would look way different.”

“What’s that supposed to m—”

“But,” Alya held up a hand, “what _did_ you guys do, exactly?”

“Um. I. We. Ice bath. Our feet.” Marinette swallowed nervously, trying to recall. “And _Ultimate Mecha Strike V_.”

Alya stared at Marinette. Then she sighed.

“Marinette, Marinette,” she said, shaking her head. “You are so….”

“I’m what?”

“Never mind,” said Alya. “Do you want my roller?”

Class went on without a hitch; she threw herself into combinations and focused on her form, correcting her weaknesses, staying warm, jumping high and hitting her feet together crisply in _petite batterie_ . It was the lack of a rush, she thought idly while waiting her turn to go in center exercises. She could concentrate better, having woken up properly, rolled out properly, and walked to the theatre at a comfortable pace— _with Adrien, no less_ , said the Alya voice in her head, but she shook it off and ran into place for combination.

The following Act III rehearsal that afternoon ran for a solid hour. The act played out several times, for the several casts that made up each dance. At the front, up against the mirrors, the ballet masters sat and took notes. Normally, Marinette would get jittery and nervous, but class had gone well, her sleep the night before had been sound, and she felt in better form than she had been before.

They’d since worked out most of the kinks in the dances they were paired together for—his hands at her waist felt natural and easy, and she trusted his grip not to slip and drop her. Their run of the mazurka went smoothly on Marinette and Adrien’s part, and when they were done, they sat side by side to watch the other dances in the act.

There was some down time before their next rehearsal, which was waltz, again, so they found an empty studio and looked at their notes together—which were about as good as they could’ve hoped, save for a few comments.

“Not enough leaning back of the head,” Marinette read aloud. She groaned. “Really? I thought I was doing it.”

“Mine just says ‘not enough head,’ so it could be worse.” Adrien snickered as he looked at it again. Marinette rolled her eyes.

“Do you even want to go over the waltz?”

“Nah,” said Adrien, lying down. “I’m too tired.”

“And to think I put my pointe shoes on before coming in here.”

“Sorry,” he said, drawing out the vowels with a teasing grin. She made a face at him. “Oh, c’mon, you aren’t _actually_ mad. Besides,” he added, spreading his legs out on the floor, “this is nice, hanging out like this. I feel like you didn’t like me when we first met.”

“That was because it looked like you were trying to put gum on my chair in math class.” Marinette settled down next to him, put her hands behind her head, and closed her eyes. “I mean, I know _now_ that you were just being nice, because you apologized later.”

“And we became friends!”

Was that really how he saw it? She pointed and flexed her feet thoughtfully. Of course she’d been friendlier to him since then, but maybe being homeschooled and taking private ballet lessons had sort of skewed his idea of friendship.

“Friends,” she echoed softly to herself. “I still have that umbrella, too.”

He sat up. “Really?”

“Mm.” She hummed. “It’s at home.”

She heard him lie back down and rearrange his hands and knees. They lay there for a bit, enjoying amicable quiet, exhausted from rehearsal and staying warm from their sweaters and sweatpants. Stray thoughts darted back and forth through her mind: the black umbrella he’d given her sitting at home, his Hello Kitty band-aid on his thumb and middle finger and ring finger, his father saying he should have paired them together sooner.

“How come we haven’t danced together until now?” she mused, opening her eyes and darting a look at him.

He met her gaze a little sleepily. “I dunno. I mean, I always danced with—”

“Chloé,” Marinette groaned. She stretched and sat up. “That’s why.”

“What?”

“Because Chloé always danced with you, in pairs class,” said Marinette. “I usually ended up with Nathanael, or Luka, once, I think.”

“Oh, right you did that _pas_ with him for”—he scrunched up his eyebrows in thought—“for graduation recital, right?”

“Yeah, graduation recital.”

He had pulled out his phone and was absently scrolling a thumb over the screen, but it looked like he was thinking hard, vibrating with barely contained excitement.

“Didn’t you do Firebird with Luka?”

She gave him a strange look. “No, that year I did _Raymonda_ with Luka. _Firebird_ was with Nathanael, I think. The whole school put it on all together but I had to sub in when Aurore broke her toe.”

“Really?” he said. She looked at him, eyebrows raised at his tone of voice—masked excitement, acknowledgement, a hint of—a hint of an inkling he’d already had. He was looking at her with eyes shining, like he’d just opened a window to let a clear breeze in. “Can I see it? Your Firebird.”

She jumped in surprise. “What? No! I don’t even know if I remember it!”

“Too bad, music’s already starting,” he said in a sing-song voice, wiggling his phone, and he was right; it was starting, long held notes on a mysterious oboe. She groaned as she jogged to the center of the studio and tried to catch up to the music.

 _The Firebird—_ her teacher from school had given it to her because it was vivacious and lyrical, “perfect for showing off Marinette’s virtuosic skill and artistry,” which she rolled her eyes at still to this day. It did fit her, in a way, all fluttering flutes and shimmering harps, trilling back and forth, with fluttering hands and in place quick _bourrée_ s and soaring jumps with her arms thrown back, as if in flight. Everything fell into easy place when the swing of the music settled into her limbs and she could feel the glistening embers among her feathers, her head snapping this way and that like a real bird. If only, she thought, as she went into the _chainé_ turns, her shoes weren’t so soft.

Her toe sank awkwardly into the floor as she did her final pose. “Ugh,” she muttered. “Shoes are giving out.”

“But my lady’s dancing was absolutely _divine_!” said Adrien, sliding down on one knee and holding his arms out. “I could not possibly have known thine shoes were falling apart from thine delicate balances and steps!”

Marinette rolled her eyes and laughed. “Are you my Prince Ivan now?” she teased.

“No, my lady, I am but a lowly… _tomcat_ ,” he purred, springing up in a _pas de chat_.

“You strike me as more of a loyal puppy type,” said Marinette.

“Nah, I love cats. That was my first real role, and my favorite one,” said Adrien. “Puss in Boots from _Sleeping Beauty_.”

“Of course it was.”

“I am afraid I cannot show it off for you though,” he said with a flourished sigh. “I need a White Cat to pair with, and the person who danced it with me is not here.”

“Then, do you have anything to dance for me?” Marinette settled on the floor by the mirror. “I don’t wanna feel like I’m working for Big Important Ballet Master Agreste, here.”

“Hey! That’s my dad!”

But they were laughing easily and when the laughter died down, Adrien’s expression slipped into something more thoughtful.

“I’ve… been understudying the Siegfried role,” Adrien admitted. “Though it’s a little awkward, I guess. Lila’s a little overbearing as a partner. And,” he added with a sigh, “I feel Théo doesn’t exactly want me in the class, sometimes.”

He laughed a little sheepishly at that, but she thought it a little sad and a little vulnerable of him to admit that.

“Can you show me?” she asked him.

“What part?”

She thought for a bit. “The variation from Act I,” she said. “I’ve always liked that one.”

Adrien swiped a bit through his phone, pressed play, and started dancing. The oboe music seemed to carry his feet through the routine, and she watched, mesmerized. She could never really seem to get past how good he was, his turns measured and perfectly precise, his arabesque at the perfect angle, his feet pointed into perfect arches, but as he kept dancing, Marinette put her chin in her hands and watched, thinking, observing.

“That was pretty good,” she said, “but I always…”

She trailed off, rethinking her words. “Sorry,” she said, tucking her hands between her knees. “Maybe I shouldn’t say. I mean, what do I know, right? It’s not like I’m a ballet mistress or anything, I mean, I’m barely even a _coryphée_ —”

“No, no,” said Adrien, breathing heavily from the exertion of the dance. He pushed his hair off his face. “You should tell me.”

He seemed genuinely curious for her input. She chewed her lip and then took a deep breath.

“Well,” she started slowly. “I always felt like… this solo was weirdly sad compared to the rest of the act, right? And I always wondered if maybe the prince was dreaming for something more fulfilling in his life, and that’s why he’s so ready to fall in love and swear his love for the swan. But,” she added quickly, “I mean, that’s just my interpretation, I mean, it’s not like I even dance the prince at all.”

She laughed nervously, and immediately wanted to hit herself for how stupid she sounded, but to her surprise, Adrien was nodding thoughtfully.

“That’s pretty cool, actually,” he said, sitting down next to her. “I never really thought too hard about all of that.”

“That’s weird,” Marinette blurted out, before clapping a hand over her mouth. “I mean, I’m sorry, it’s not that weird, but like I always thought—I don’t know, the story of the dancing and stuff is… half of the fun? I mean, I’m sorry, everyone dances differently, I guess—”

“Fun,” he said, looking off into the corner of the room. Then he sighed. “I guess I never thought of ballet as _fun_. Just something I do.”

There was a moment where they sat, Adrien looking down at his shoes and pointing and flexing his feet, and Marinette watching him point and flex, her mind running frantic circles.  

“Adrien,” she said finally. “Do you not dance for the fun of it?”

He shifted uncomfortably and grimaced anxiously. “Well, when you put it like _that_ …”

Marinette stared at him. Adrien looked nervously to the side and back at Marinette. “What?” he said.

She tipped her head down to look at him, a smile creeping on her face. “C’mon.”

“What?” he asked more desperately, but she was already walking away from him, standing in the empty studio, her fingers flying over her phone. “What’re you doing?”

“Dancing,” she said. She closed her eyes and let the music take her over.

She felt Adrien watching her from behind. If it was any other day, she might have been more self-conscious about it, but it wasn’t about her, or Adrien, it was just about moving and feeling the music through every muscle and bone in her body. The slow roll of her shoulders and hips, the slick turn of her heel out, like a ballet turnout, even, if it wasn’t classical or structured, but free.

“I don’t think I know how to do this kind of dance,” said Adrien from behind her. She opened her eyes. He was standing awkwardly like he didn’t know where to put his hands and feet.

“It’s not so hard,” she said kindly. “Dancing is a form of self-expression that no one can _ever_ take away from you! You just have to… feel it. And move.”

She took his hands—his eyes widened—and closed her eyes again, stretched her legs and arms out, rolled her shoulders and hips, turning her head this way and that, and after a minute, she felt Adrien start to respond.

She felt his hands grip her waist, right under her ribs. He’d known where it was right to hold her, and it was freeing. She raised a leg high and leaned back, rolling her body to the beat, falling on his, and his hand snaked over her outstretched arms.

Dancing with another person was about trust. He hadn’t dropped her before, but she knew for sure, as they moved, that he wouldn’t. She could feel it in the way he breathed, the touch of his hands, his every movement.

She twisted, and he followed. She twirled, and he followed. She jumped, and found him there to support her, pick her up around, until their faces were almost touching.

“Wow,” said Adrien quietly, barely above a whisper. Marinette jerked back, eyes wide, suddenly warm in the face.

“Oh, I, I’m, I mean—”

“It’s like, there’s… something raw and simple about the way you dance,” he said. “When you do ballet, or when you’re just moving to the music, it’s… You’re so _good_.”

She blushed deeply then, and she could tell because she could see it in the mirror out of the corner of her eye. Adrien’s face changed from somewhere past dazzled to something between embarrassment and panic.

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to, er, well, maybe it was a bit much.”

“I-it’s fine,” she said, laughing nervously. “Thank you, though.”

He smiled warmly. “Of course,” he said.

They both jumped when a phone rang—hers, she noted with a panic, and she rushed to her bag to answer it. “Sorry,” she said to Adrien, before hitting answer. “Hello?”

“Mari?” said Alya. “Where the heck are you? It’s getting kinda late. You still in romantic Adrien rehearsal?”

Marinette looked at the time. “Fuck,” she muttered under her breath. “Yeah, I’m coming home late today, I think.”

“Just looking out for you, girl,” said Alya, and Marinette swore she could’ve heard a wink. “Enjoy your date!”

She clicked off before Marinette could protest. Adrien was smiling like he was about to break into laughter.

“Gotta get going?” he asked.

“Maybe. I mean, I probably should.” Marinette sighed.

“Well, I was gonna ask if you wanted to do the usual.”

She looked at him, and he looked at her, and her heart skipped a beat. “Sure,” she said, smiling slowly. “I’m always up for the usual.”

He took her hand. “Well, my lady,” he said with a little bow. “Let us be off.”

 

 

 

 

“So how about that morning class,” said Alya.

Marinette jerked, and dropped her fake eyelash. “What about the morning class?” she said, picking it up again.

Alya didn’t even say anything, just finished drawing on her lip liner and looked at her.

“Nothing happened!”

“Uh-huh.”

“All we did was walk in together.”

“And stand next to each other, and make moony eyes at each other, and smile at each other, and giggle at each other—”

Marinette sighed. There was no fighting Alya. “Okay, so maybe we—I don’t know, danced—I don’t know, it wasn’t that serious.”

“Sounds kinda serious to me.”

Marinette sighed.

“Seriously,” said Alya. “When are you gonna make your move? You two are absolutely without question into each other. Did you even notice Chloé glaring at you all day?”

Well, come to think of it, she hadn’t, but it seemed irrelevant in the moment.

Maybe Alya was right. She’d been so caught up in _Adrien_ , and he’d been so caught up in her that she hadn’t noticed much else.

She thought of the look in his eyes, kind and warm and gentle, the dimples that appeared when he was smiling cockily, his hands on her waist, holding her up in lifts and promenades.

“Helloooooo, Earth to Marinette. You still there?” said Alya.

Marinette dropped her mascara wand. “Fuck,” she said. “Sorry. I’m sorry. Of course. I’m here.”

“Took you a bit,” Alya joked. “But seriously. Penny for your thoughts?”

She picked up the fallen mascara wand. “Maybe you’re right,” she said. “I should ask him out. I mean, I can’t wait around forever. I’ve got to—seize the moment.”

“Now you’re talking sense,” said Alya. “After dress rehearsal?”

“Yeah.” Marinette looked at her reflection. “I’ll do it.”

The backstage area was a rush of people zipping up costumes and drawing lips and eye-lines and gluing lashes. They were all supposed to go to the main stage to prep for the Act I entrances, but it seemed like everyone was trying to go everywhere at once. Marinette kept one hand on her head, afraid for her hair ornament to fall off, and promptly bumped into a very sequined chest.

“Wow,” said the sequined chest. “You look great.”

Adrien had caked his face in powder, as they all did for stage makeup, and ringed his eyes in eyeliner. He grinned when Marinette made a face at him.

“Stage makeup isn’t to look pretty,” she said.

“I know,” he said, still grinning. “But you still look nice.”

She laughed, the sharp realization that they did in fact flirt with each other all the time poking at the back of her brain like badly-placed bobby pins.

He was just being nice. That was all it was. Adrien Agreste, the kind young dancer who she happened to dance with and sometimes eat dinner with.

Gabriel was sitting in the empty audience theatre with a microphone in his hand and razor-sharp gaze behind his glasses when everyone in the first act finally assembled. The music began, and the lights shone brilliantly upon the scene. And then they turned off. And then they turned on. The pianist stopped playing. The dancers stopped dancing, for lack of music and lighting. Marinette exchanged a look with Adrien.

“He’s gonna say it,” said Adrien with a hint of exasperation. “What’s the meaning of th—”

“What’s the meaning of this?” Gabriel demanded nasally into the microphone.

“Nailed it,” whispered Adrien.

“We’re working on it, sir!” one of the stagehands yelled. “One of the circuits seems to be undergoing difficulty!”

“Well, until you get there,” said Gabriel, “please let us know before you waste people’s time with useless delays.”

Adrien grimaced. “He could at least not take it out on them,” he said to Marinette in a low voice as they all exited the stage. “They’re just trying to do their job.”

She shook her head in sympathy. “Yeah, but… you know how he is. Especially around this time.”

“I guess so,” said Adrien. They had gotten to the hall of dressing rooms now, and the dancers were beginning to disperse. “What now, then?”

Marinette ignored Chloé’s glare from over the sea of ballet buns and shrugged. “I have a bunch of pointe shoes that need sewing, but I don’t know if your abysmal sewing skills are up to that,” she added, raising a challenging eyebrow.

He grinned. “Oh, yeah. I’ve gotten better. You’ll see.”

He had, in fact, gotten better—his stitches were much more even, now, and tighter. The corps women shared between all of them several large dressing rooms, and Adrien’s presence turned heads among the groups of dancers wearing tulle skirts and flower ornaments in their buns. She tried not to feel so self-conscious, but he sewed with no attention paid to the whispers and glances. Alya, who was sitting with Juleka and Mylène gave her a wink and a thumbs up.

Marinette ignored her, tied off the knot on the stitch she was working on, and looked back at Adrien instead, who’d pricked his finger again and was sucking it intensely, his lips tightly wrapped around his knuckle.

She tried not to stare.

“U-um,” she said eloquently. “Do—do you need a bandaid?”

He took the finger out of his mouth with a pop and smiled apologetically. “No, but thanks.”

He went back to his stitches. The silence between them was unhurried and amicable. She didn’t feel any strange need to impress him anymore; now, he seemed already impressed by her very presence. It wasn’t something she was used to, but not a feeling entirely unwelcome, either, and certainly something that she felt she reciprocated. The mystery behind Adrien Agreste’s princely aura had been resolved, but she found that she rather liked the pieces that had been put together. It made for a picture that seemed to speak to her more than she would have expected.

And—she squinted harder at the stitches in the shoe in her lap—his lips around that finger—no, she tried hard not to think about that.

Alya kept looking at them, and Marinette cut more ribbons and ignored her. She didn’t want to break the strange, quiet trust between them.

Tonight, she thought to herself. Tonight, she’d ask.

 

 

 

 

“The usual?” he had asked after rehearsal, and after a glance from Alya, she said “Sure, of course.”

_I could never turn you down._

It was a nicer affair than he had let on: roast chicken and vegetables, but afterwards they settled in while Marinette sewed her pointe shoes, her feet propped up on Adrien’s lap, while he read a book and rubbed a thumb absently against her arches—the very picture of domesticity.

“That feels really good,” she said. “I could go for a foot massage.”

“Sounds like someone wants an ice bath,” he said.

“That’s not a foot massage,” she said, laughing. He made a face. “Don’t look at me like that. I can work with an ice bath.”

It was routine, now—he got out the bucket and the ice and the salts, half because he insisted, and half because she wasn’t familiar enough with the way he stored things around the apartment. It felt like something old married couples did, and she was sure that if she told Alya that they stuck their callused blistered feet into an ice bucket every night, she would’ve gotten that exact comment. But it was still something she looked forward to, and it relaxed her after a long day of dancing.

“Ugh,” she said, sighing in relief as her feet hit the cold. “It’s so exhausting, doing swan.”

“I think you do it beautifully,” said Adrien. She laughed.

‘Thank you,” she said, wiggling her toes in the ice. “but it’s really a bitch.”

“No, seriously,” he said. “I don’t know how you do it. You dance so, so well, and then you keep going, and then you keep going. Like, you’re going for the whole time, you know?”

His green eyes gazed straight at her. She blushed a little.

“It’s not all me,” she admitted. “I have a lucky charm.”

“A lucky charm?” he said, his eyebrows furrowing.

She went to her bag and took a small plush ladybug charm out of it, letting it rest in her palm for him to see. “Her name’s Tikki,” she said. “I’ve had it since school.”

“Are you for real?” he asked after a dumbfounded pause.

“Try it,” she said, “and see.”

She held it out to him. He took it.

“Thank you,” he said.

His gaze was tender but steady. They were sitting very close to each other on the couch now. She met his eyes with a little hesitation, nervous for no apparent reason—a delicate taut tension thar she dared not disturb—then suddenly his eyes were half-lidded, glancing down at something lower down on her face—her mouth, she realized with a sudden flash of surprise.

Alya was right, she thought as her heartbeat picked up. He really did like her. He liked her a lot.

 _But how?_ thought the more skeptical Marinette. _What does he even like about you? Your drunk dancing? Your stammering?_

His lips met hers in a gentle touch. His mouth was a little chapped and a little hesitant, but still kind and overwhelmingly _Adrien_ , that she felt her initial tenseness melt into something more giving and tender—his hands had moved to reach up into her hair, a thumb tenderly on her cheekbone, the other fingers curling around behind her ear—he had tilted his head more and leaned a little more forwards now, and she gave way and let him _bloom—oh_ , she thought, his smell and softness everywhere, intoxicating—and yet, everything was strange and foreign, and she didn’t feel like herself—

She jerked back suddenly. The thoughts crowded all over the space of her mind, and suddenly it all cleared up, unfettered by the dreaminess of being lost in love.

“Marinette?” he said, his green eyes three parts concern and one part hurt. “Are you okay?”

“I have to go,” she said, picking up her things, and scrambling into her coat. “I—I’m so sorry, I don’t know, we shouldn’t have done this—”

“Marinette!” he called after her, but she shut the door after her and nearly ran all the way home, her heartbeat the only noise she could hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> plot!??? in my useless goop of a fanfiction??? more likely than you'd expect—tune in next time for the thrilling conclusion!!
> 
>  
> 
> [adrien’s variation / siegfried act i solo ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_9aL0nSglvQ)
> 
>  
> 
> [marinette’s variation / appearance of the firebird](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uf4VjsZtqts)
> 
>  
> 
> (actually the last chapter is only very ROUGHLY sketched out, so it really REALLY might take a while and the next month is propositioned to be pretty hectic. everyone has been so kind and i've really been reading all of the kind comments and taking them all to heart...!!! thank you so much for your support, really, truly!!!)


	5. Chapter 5

It was late when she finally got back. The hairs at the back of her neck were damp with sweat from nearly running all the way home, but she hardly felt it until she went to take off her coat, and the coolness that rushed in the absence of warm wool tingled at her nape strangely. Nothing felt real. She didn’t feel real.

“Did you do it?” said Alya.

She stopped, breathing heavily, trying to delay her answer as much as possible. Alya stared at her, a half-finished cup of tea in her hand—season opening was tomorrow, after all, so alcohol was strictly off the table—the television drama muffled in the background.

Finally, Marinette shrugged.

“Marinette?”

She put down her bag and left the living room, walked into the hallway, towards her room.

Alya followed her, the shadow she couldn’t quite shake.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m just tired.”

“Did something happen? Did you—“

“He kissed me,” Marinette burst out, whirling around. “Okay? Are you happy? Is that what you wanted to know?”

Alya opened her mouth and closed it, words not coming. “S-so,” she began, seemingly not sure how to react. “You...?”

“No, but”—Marinette sighed—“I left right after, okay? I didn’t really know—I don’t know—what to say.”

The space between them felt bigger than it really was, and still Marinette wanted it to be further. She needed more space. More so she could breathe, comprehend, _think._

“Why not?”

“I don’t know!” said Marinette, and then: “Maybe it’s because, stuff, is, I don’t know, moving really fast! He doesn’t know me! I don’t know him!”

“You spend so much time with him,” said Alya. “You’re telling me that even with all that you don’t know him?”

“Look, tomorrow is performance night,” she said. “I’m just going to sleep and get some rest. I need it.”

Alya nodded, the look in her eyes a little hurt. “Okay.”

The light of the hallway slid into a thin sliver as Alya shut the door. The darkness wrapped around her like a soft blanket, but it still wasn’t enough to repel the memory of a warm touch on her lips, a tender hand on her face, the hurt look in his green eyes, her own panicked rush.

She pulled the covers over her head. Her phone buzzed a few times but she resolved not to look at it, for fear it was the thing that she wanted to avoid.

 

 

 

“I’m sorry,” said Adrien when she saw him the first thing the next day. “I was overstepping my boundaries.”

She stopped in front of him, a hand still gripping the strap of her bag. She felt, oddly, like she had the upper hand—he was wringing his hands, shifting his weight from foot to foot, while she stood perfectly still.

“It’s fine,” she said. “We’ll just get through the day.”

“O-okay,” he said, withdrawing a little bit.

He didn’t stop fidgeting. She adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder. “We’re good, right?”

He nodded. “Yeah, we’re good.”

His voice was barely above a whisper.

The morning sun streamed through the big windows of the studio, but he looked like clouds had cast shadows under his eyes. She felt bad. It was her fault that he probably hadn’t slept. She hadn’t exactly slept well either but it was her own damn fault for starting all of this to begin with.

She put her bag down and took out her roller. There was no time for distractions. They were here to do a job in something they were trained to do for their whole lives, and she wasn’t about to let a scuffle in her love life affect it.

Adrien in the meantime had put a foot up on the barre, hunched over his leg, stretching the muscles in his calves and thighs. Guess he’d forgotten his roller. Marinette stared at him for a moment—his face was hidden under a mess of soft blond hair, his nose brushing his knee. It struck a strangely familiar chord, a lonely figure stretching at the barre. It felt, she realized, like that day.

They had been fifteen. He had just transferred to their school, after being privately tutored by his own father for the longest time, and they had shared a math class together. In the soft rain outside of the academic school they went to, he had apologized for the prank that was mostly Chloé’s doing, before going to boys’ technique class, leaving her with a black umbrella under the awning, while he ran under the rain, school bag over his head, towards the theatre.

The thunder echoed in her head but louder in her heart. Adrien pointed his toes on the bar, his hands gently cradling his ankle, and shifted his head so that his blond hair fell a different way on his leg.

“We can do it,” she blurted out to him.

He looked up, surprised.

“I just meant”—she clasped her hands together nervously—“I didn’t mean—it’s just a lot to think about, last night. But that’s last night and we have a show to put on. Right?”

She offered what she hoped was an encouraging look.

He looked into it for a long moment, his gaze flickering between her left and right eyes, as if he was looking for something that she didn’t have.

Finally, he put his foot down and gave a smile. “Of course, Marinette.”

The way he said her name shouldn’t have given her the kind of chills it did, but she did her best to ignore it. There was a show to put on, after all.

 

 

 

“One hour until showtime, I repeat, one hour until showtime,” murmured the soft voice over the speakers.

Marinette stuck another pin in her bun and patted her flower headdress down. Perfect. Now for the eyes—slowly, slowly, drawing the liner right at the lash line for her right eye— _perfect._

Beside her, Alya was in full makeup, but nervously counting pairs of shoes, sewing needles poking out from between her red lips.

“Mari,” she said around the needles. “Do you mind getting me another pair of shoes from the shoe room? I think I might need to sew another one.”

“Sure,” said Marinette, standing up.

She zipped up her sweater and made her way down the stairs, nodding and wishing fellow dancers luck on the stage. The shoe room was near empty, and she went immediately to the shelf marked _Césaire_ and grabbed three pairs, just in case.

It was on her way back up that she heard someone call out her name.

“Marinette!”

She spun around to see Adrien, wearing a warm zip-up sweater and sweatpants over his costume.

“Oh—hey,” she said.

“Ready for tonight?”

“It’s an hour til curtains go up,” she said with a rueful smile. “I kinda have to be.”

He laughed at that. “I get you.”

“I’m gonna”—she jerked her head towards the dressing room—“go. These are Alya’s shoes and she needs to sew them.”

“I can come with,” he offered.

“No, it’s fine—”

“Oh!” he said, leaning in close—her heart picked up—and looking straight into her eyes. “You didn’t do your other eye?”

“I, uh, got distracted,” she said a sheepish smile. “Uh, with the shoes. I mean, I can do it later—”

“Come on,” he said. “I got it.”

“Wh-what—”

He took her hand and led her into the dressing room. Heads turned at his entrance, but he ignored them all, pushed her down gently onto the makeup chair, and took out a brush.

“I know how to put on eyeliner, it’s fine,” she protested, but any more words caught in her throat when he knelt down, cupped his left hand on her cheek and set about drawing the eyeliner with his right, his green eyes looking intensely at her lashes. His gaze was just off that he wasn’t quite looking into her eyes, but from here she could see tiny flecks of gold interspersed in the green, and the way his long lashes were coated in black, making his irises that much more colorful.

“Look down for a second,” he murmured, still intensely focused on his task, and she flickered her own gaze down at his mouth—parted slightly in concentration, a tongue beginning to peek out, the peak on his top lip soft and his bottom lip plump, and she swallowed nervously at the memory of those lips on _hers,_ they had kissed her so gently with an insistence that had made her head spin, the kind of insistence that let her know she was wanted and the kind that made her want back—

“There,” he said, his lips raising in a half-grin, the beginning of a dimple creasing his cheek. He stepped back and stood up, swiveling the chair towards the mirror and leaning down so their faces were about the same height. “I did a good job, didn’t I?”

It was a good job. She told him so without really hearing it herself, trying to ignore the jumping feeling in her chest.

“I’ll be going,” said Adrien. “Gonna warm up for a bit before getting out there. See you later,” he added with a gentle smile.

Alya gave her a raised eyebrow as he closed the door to the dressing room behind him, but Marinette only shrugged and set about gluing on her false eyelashes. She didn’t quite know either. It was almost they couldn’t help handling the other with softness, despite the thing that should have shattered their softness to pieces.

No, that wasn’t it. She was just being professional and polite. He was just being nice. They were partners in the show, and they were doing what they needed to get the show on the road.

“You should go warm up,” said Alya. “I’ll join you in a bit, just gonna prep this pair first.”

“Okay,” said Marinette. “See you in a bit.”

The stage techs had set up several barres in the giant backstage area where they usually kept all the props, and Bustier already was walking around calling out a combination. Marinette swore under her breath. She hadn’t heard the first part thanks to being late.

She grabbed the first empty bar space she found and leaned to the person next to her. “What’s the”—the person turned around—“c-combination…”

Adrien grinned teasingly. _“Tendu_ front twice, side twice, back twice, _rond de jambe en dehors, rond de jambe en dedans, relevé,_ turn around.”

She stared at him blankly. He laughed quietly as the music started.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Just watch me.”

The music started and they all swept their arms gracefully into position. Just watch me, he said—so she did.

She really hadn’t realized just how much she was around him now. It all felt strangely different after That Kiss—like her perspective was clearer, now. She could see how much she liked the little details, like the shape of his calves, the sharpness of his shoulder blades, the short hairs trailing down the nape of his neck. She could even see Chloé from across the room bite her lip in frustration. Chloé was jealous. Chloé was jealous, thought Marinette with a jolt.

 _Focus._ She needed to focus. Opening was in half an hour, and she needed to focus.

The combinations changed, gradually more demanding, and with the last combination she could feel her muscles fully relaxed and warm. If only her heart were the same—but she shushed it the best she could.

She left to go sew her shoes into her tights, since ribbons undoing in the middle of a show would ruin her night, and when she was done it was time to stand backstage for her entrance. Her footsteps were punctuated by the loud beating of her heart. It was all too real now. Too clear. Too much information. Too many thoughts.

Adrien caught her eye as she edged her way through the small crowd of corps dancers, and immediately went to her. “Hey,” he said softly. “Are you okay?”

She laughed nervously. “Uh, yeah, why?”

“You look like you have a lot on your mind.” He tilted his head in curiosity.

“Well—” She couldn’t really lie to him. “K-kind of.”

He put a hand on her shoulder. “It’ll be alright,” he said quietly, so no one but them could hear. “We make a great team, don’t we? We’ve got this in the bag.”

The warmth of his hand and his voice reassured her more than anything.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay.”

The overture started playing, and Adrien left his hands on her shoulders, standing behind her as her fingers fiddled nervously with the hem of her costume.

“You know,” Adrien murmured next to her ear, so low that no one could possibly hear him over the orchestra. “You look really nice.”

“You said that yesterday,” she whispered back. He gave her a rueful smile in response, and reached down to squeeze her hand briefly, before drawing his hands It felt colder with the absence, and she held it up for a moment, curious at the strangely present sensation.

The music started and she took a deep breath. She could do it.

Her muscle memory took over. Gabriel Agreste’s productions always demanded precise footwork, and this one was no exception. It was hard, but her body knew it, and the lights were bright and the music was loud, and despite herself, she couldn’t help but smile. The reassurance of Adrien’s warm hand in hers felt good. It felt _right._

She wished a little naively that she could be nine years old again, at the ballet theatre, watching the girls in their colorful nobles’ skirts and the flowers in their hair, whirling and twirling and waltzing across the stage. What a sight—she caught herself thinking about Adrien, again—people all moving in unison to create something amazing, was what he’d said.

The formations changed, and she turned to face him like the choreography had dictated. There was a smile on Adrien’s face, like he’d suddenly thought of something brilliant. Like the excitement of a child promised sweets. They were supposed to be smiling to begin with, and they both were, but that smile smelt like genuine mischief than anything stage-like.

“Those turns were _en pointe,”_ said Adrien softly, once the music had ended and they were standing off to the side to watch the next dance, the _pas de trois._ “ _On point_ , milady.”

She looked at him, still not dropping her stage smile, but still breathing deeply, trying to recover from the exertion. “How do you have the energy to still make puns?” she asked, her voice low so no one in the audience could hear them.

“I’m always thinking of them,” he joked with his hands behind his back, all regal like a prince. “It keeps you on your _toes.”_

Marinette cracked a real smile then. The _pas de trois_ dancers twirled and lifted their arms and legs gracefully, but she and Adrien were in their own little world of puns.

“I wouldn’t be so sharp with your puns,” she said quietly, moving her hand so it was in front of her mouth, like a proper lady whispering secrets to her noble lover, “you might cut me to _ribbons.”_

He gave her a look that caused her to flutter her eyes a little wide with shock. It was—well, it was pure adoration, and in light of The Kiss, she could see it clearly now.

She turned her gaze back to the _pas de trois_ dancers. She was really so oblivious. Even the voice in her head saying _I told you so_ sounded just like Alya.

The knot in her chest tightened to a clump, but she set it aside. There would be time for that later.

 

 

 

The show was more or less a success. The swans more or less all collapsed backstage, once they were out of the wings, laughing and hugging each other.

“We did it!” said Alya, wrapping her arms around Marinette’s shoulders. “We did it!”

“We did,” said Marinette, laughing as they walked back to the corps women’s dressing room. “We did.”

Her feet ached something fierce, and it felt freeing to finally take her tutu and her tights and her shoes off into comfortable sweatpants and a t-shirt and cushy sneakers. Her hair was a funny shape from being hairsprayed into a bun for three hours straight, but she brushed it for now. There was a shower waiting for her at home.

“Rose and Juleka want to go out for dinner,” said Alya from next to her, looking at her phone. “You wanna go?”

“Sure,” she said, “I’m just gonna do something real quick, first.”

“Come back soon, then,” said Alya, putting down her phone and starting to work the feather headpiece out of her hair.

Marinette smiled briefly, and climbed the stairs up to the studios. They were empty and dark. It all felt strangely like that one day, when Gabriel had given her the news of promotion. There had been so many emotions that day that she’d needed space to clear her head and think. She needed space to dance.

Her calves were aching too bad to dance proper, and she had to save her strength for tomorrow, but she stepped into the studio and stretched out on the wooden floor instead. The cool, hard surface felt good against her back and her legs, and she sighed a little happily, letting her thoughts drift slowly.

The door creaked open. Her eyes snapped open.

“Marinette?”

It was Adrien. Her heartbeat picked up uncomfortably. She sat up and tried to compose herself, faced away from the doorway, but the anticipation—she knew why he was here, they both knew. The day was over, the first show was over.

“Mari,” he said, and the nickname made her heart jump. She heard him move closer.

“Mari,” he said again. “Look, I know that we—we said we were good, and performance mostly went well, but—I just want to know if we’re really good. Because I… feel like we aren’t… as good as we might say.”

“You’re right,” she said quietly. It was true, and it was all her fault, really.

“I do—I do like you a lot,” he continued, honestly. “I—I wouldn’t have tried to do…I wouldn’t have tried to kiss you if I didn’t. But I know that it might have… scared you, and I’m sorry.”

He was apologizing to her, when it had nothing to with him? She rubbed the bridge of her nose with her fingertips in distress. She was really the ungrateful one here.

“I… I’m sorry,” she said. “I like you too, I just. It’s just—I don’t—I didn’t think there was… any real chance,” she sighed, looking away. “There’s no point.”

He was stunned into silence. “No point?” he asked after a beat, his voice hoarse.

“No.”

“Mari, what the hell do you mean?”

“I mean,” she said, still looking at the floor, not bearing to look at Adrien’s probably exquisitely concerned face, “that, whatever this is, can’t… work. You don’t even _know_ me. I’m boring, I’m clumsy, I’m awkward…”

“That won’t stop me from trying,” he said firmly. “And that’s not even true, anyway. I do know you.”

“How?” she shot back.

“You danced the lead in _Firebird_ back in the recital in the year before I joined the school, didn’t you?”

The question was so out of nowhere that she jerked her head up, and looked at him with confusion. “Yes?” she said.

“I saw her, and I—” He inhaled. “That girl had such incredible stage presence. You know? Dizzying and enchanting and everything all at once. I’d wanted to go to school for years, but after I saw you I knew I _had_ to go. But still,” he said, with a wistful sigh, “I couldn’t find her afterwards, even when I looked through every program I could find, and every classroom I could. But when I saw you dance, I—it was like I was there again, watching that girl on stage.”

She’d told him about Aurore’s broken toe, but she didn’t realize he’d thought of her too, that girl who was Marinette but not Marinette, alluring in the tutu of scarlet tulle and glimmering sequins, painstakingly hand-sewn, the crown of red feathers brilliant on her dark hair.

To think that he’d been looking for her all along. She pressed a palm to her mouth, eyes fixed on her toes.

“You said it yourself,” he said. “Dancing is a form of self-expression no one can ever take away from you. I _do_ know you, because I’ve seen you dance, where your true self is. I see you dance all the time—when, when you were doing that variation, when you were dancing at that party, when you’re in class… It’s…” Adrien inhaled deeply. “Incredible. Like I could see your entire self and no one else. You’re beautiful and brave and strong and passionate and kind, and it shows in your dancing all at once, and I love it. I love _you_.”

Her heart beat loudly enough for her ears to hear it. She dared a glance at his face. His eyes were filled with the fierce conviction of someone speaking truthfully. She bit her lip.

“That… that is so cheesy,” she said, before realizing how it might have sounded mean. “I mean—well—”

He burst out laughing.

“You’re right!” he said, taking her hand. “You’re absolutely right. But I don’t care. It’s how I feel.”

He kissed her knuckles gently, and she thought it strange how in that moment all her stammering and fears seemed to melt away. She would be fine. Adrien was here, and with Adrien she felt like she could be better.

“If I can’t have a kiss,” he said, still holding onto her hand tenderly, “then mayhap might I have this dance?”

Marinette sighed, eyelashes fluttering shut as she held back a laugh. “Of course.”

He took her gently by the waist, then, and she moved into his embrace, rising onto the balls of her feet in _relevé_ , stretching her right leg out behind her.

“There’s no music,” she whispered.

“We don’t need it,” he replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you everyone so much for being patient and for sending love, kudos, comments, everything. first ml fic meant, well, nothing was gonna really be perfect, but i learned a lot about these characters, i had fun indulging in my own goopy interests, and hopefully i'll write them better in the next one, lol.
> 
> thank you again for reading!
> 
> EDIT 21 AUGUST 2018: if you have any interest at all in pointe shoes then [THIS VIDEO](https://youtu.be/sZoAx0rjqFI) might be of interest! i didn't link any earlier but this is by the ballet du l'opéra de paris (the french lol) and it's nice bc not only do they cover like... living with how many shoes they use (marinette sewing pointe shoes constantly when she is not literally doing anything else......) but also how it plays into partnering etc!


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